Anyway, that was why Sarene was doing the questioning today. The Taraboner White was a thoughtful person, completely unaware that she was one of the most beautiful women to gain the shawl in years. Her nonchalance was not unexpected, as she was of the White Ajah, who could often be as oblivious as Browns. Sarene also didn’t know that Cadsuane was outside eavesdropping, through the use of a weave of Air and Fire. It was a simple trick, one often learned by novices. Mixing it with this newly found trick of inverting one’s weaves meant that Cadsuane could listen in without anyone inside knowing that she was there.
The Aes Sedai outside saw what she was doing, of course, but none said anything. Even though two of them—Elza and Erian—were among the group of fools who had sworn fealty to the al’Thor boy, they stepped lightly around her; they knew how she regarded them. Idiot women. At times, it seemed that half of her allies were only determined to make her job harder.
Sarene continued her interrogation inside. Most of the Aes Sedai in the manor had now given questioning a try. Brown, Green, White and Yellow—all had failed. Cadsuane herself had yet to address any questions to the Forsaken personally. The other Aes Sedai looked at her as an almost mythic figure, a reputation she had nurtured. She’d stayed away from the White Tower for many decades at a time, ensuring that many would assume she was dead. When she reappeared, it made a stir. She’d gone hunting false Dragons, both because it was necessary and because each man she captured added to her reputation with the other Aes Sedai.
All of her work pointed at these final days. Light blind her if she was going to let that al’Thor boy ruin it all now!
She covered her scowl by taking a sip of her tea. She was slowly losing control, thread by thread. Once, something as dramatic as the squabbles at the White Tower would have drawn her immediate attention. But she couldn’t begin to work on that problem. Creation itself was unraveling, and her only way to fight that was to turn all her efforts on al’Thor.
And he resisted her every attempt to aid him. Step by step he was becoming a man with insides like stone, unmoving and unable to adapt. A statue with no feelings could not face the Dark One.
Blasted boy! And now there was Semirhage, continuing to defy her. Cadsuane itched to go in and confront the woman, but Merise had asked the very questions Cadsuane would have, and she had failed. How long would Cadsuane’s image remain intact if she proved herself as impotent as the others?
Sarene began to talk again.
“The Aes Sedai, you should not treat them so,” Sarene said, voice calm.
“Aes Sedai?” Semirhage responded, chuckling. “Don’t you feel ashamed, using that term to describe yourselves? Like a puppy calling itself a wolf!”
“We may not know everything, I admit, but—”
“You know nothing,” Semirhage replied. “You are children playing with your parents’ toys.”
Cadsuane tapped the side of her tea cup with her index finger. Again, she was struck by the similarities between herself and Semirhage—and again, those similarities made her insides itch.
Out of the corner of her eye, she saw a slender serving woman climb the steps carrying a plate of beans and steamed radishes for Semirhage’s midday meal. Time already? Sarene had been interrogating the Forsaken for three hours, and she had been talked neatly in circles the entire time. The serving woman approached and Cadsuane waved for her to enter.
A moment later, the tray crashed to the floor. At the sound, Cadsuane leaped to her feet, embracing saidar, quite nearly rushing into the room. Semirhage’s voice made Cadsuane hesitate.
“I will not eat that,” the Forsaken said, in control, as always. “I have grown tired of your swill. You will bring me something appropriate.”
“If we do,” Sarene’s voice said, obviously snatching for any advantage, “will you answer our questions?”
“Perhaps,” Semirhage replied. “We shall see if it fits my mood.”
There was silence, Cadsuane glanced at the other women in the hall, all of whom had leaped to their feet at the sound, although they couldn’t hear the voices. She motioned them to sit down.
“Go and fetch her something else,” Sarene said, speaking inside the room to the serving woman. “And send someone to clean this up.” The door opened, then shut quickly as the servant hurried away.
Sarene continued, “This next question, it will determine if you actually get to eat that meal or not.” Despite the firm voice, Cadsuane could hear a quickness to Sarene’s words. The sudden drop of the tray of food had startled her. They were all so jumpy around the Forsaken. They weren’t deferential, but they did treat Semirhage with a measure of respect. How could they not? She was a legend. One did not enter the presence of such a creature—one of the most evil beings ever to live—and not feel at least a measure of awe.
Measure of awe. . . .
“That’s our mistake,” Cadsuane whispered. She blinked, then turned and opened the door into the room.
Semirhage stood in the center of the small chamber. She had been retied in Air, the weaves likely woven the moment that she’d dropped her tray. The brass platter lay discarded, the beans soaking juice into the aged wooden boards. This room had no window; it had been a storage chamber at one point, converted into a “cell” to hold the Forsaken. Sarene—dark hair in beaded braids, beautiful face surprised at the intrusion—sat in a chair before Semirhage. Her Warder, Vitalien, broad-shouldered and ashen-faced, stood in the corner.
Semirhage’s head was not bound, and her eyes flicked toward Cadsuane.
Cadsuane had committed herself; she had to confront the woman now. Fortunately, what she planned didn’t require much delicacy. It all came back to a single question. How would Cadsuane break herself? The solution was easy, now that it occurred to her.
“Ah,” Cadsuane said with a no-nonsense attitude. “I see that the child has refused her meal. Sarene, release your weaves.”
Semirhage raised her eyebrows and opened her mouth to scoff, but as Sarene released her weaves of Air, Cadsuane grabbed Semirhage by the hair and—with a casual sweep of her foot—knocked the woman’s legs out from beneath her, dropping her to the floor.
Perhaps she could have used the Power, but it felt right to use her hands for this. She prepared a few weaves, though she probably wouldn’t need them. Semirhage, though tall, was a woman of willowy build, and Cadsuane herself had always been more stout than she was slim. Plus, the Forsaken seemed utterly dumbfounded at how she was being treated.
Cadsuane knelt down with one knee on the woman’s back, then shoved her face forward into the spilled food. “Eat,” she said. “I don’t approve of wasted food, child, particularly during these times.”
Semirhage sputtered, releasing a few phrases that Cadsuane could only assume were oaths, though she didn’t recognize any of them. The meanings were likely lost in time. Soon, the oaths subsided and Semirhage grew still. She didn’t fight back. Cadsuane wouldn’t have either; that would only hurt her image. Semirhage’s power as a captive came from the fear and respect that the Aes Sedai gave her. Cadsuane needed to change that.
“Your chair, please,” she said to Sarene.
The White stood, looking shocked. They had tried all measure of torture available to them under al’Thor’s requirements, but each of those had betrayed esteem. They were treating Semirhage as a dangerous force and a worthy enemy. That would only bolster her ego.
“Are you going to eat?” Cadsuane asked.
“I will kill you,” Semirhage said calmly. “First, before all of the others. I will make them listen to you scream.”
“I see,” Cadsuane replied. “Sarene, go tell the three Sisters outside to come in.” Cadsuane paused, thoughtful. “Also, I saw some maids cleaning rooms on the other side of the hallway. Fetch them for me as well.”
Sarene nodded, rushing from the room. Cadsuane sat in the chair, then wove threads of Air and picked Semirhage up. Elza and Erian glanced into the room, looking very curious. Then they entered, Sarene fo
llowing. A few moments later, Daigian entered with five servants: three Domani women in aprons, one spindly man, his fingers brown with stain from recoating logs, and a single serving boy. Excellent.
As they entered, Cadsuane used her threads of Air to turn Semirhage around across her knee. And then she proceeded to spank the Forsaken.
Semirhage held out at first. Then she began to curse. Then she began to sputter out threats. Cadsuane continued, her hand beginning to hurt. Semirhage’s threats turned to howls of outrage and pain. The serving girl with the food returned in the middle of it, adding even more to Semirhage’s shame. The Aes Sedai watched with slack jaws.
“Now,” Cadsuane said after a few moments, breaking into one of Semirhage’s howls of pain. “Will you eat?”
“I’ll find everyone you’ve ever loved,” the Forsaken said, tears in her eyes, “I’ll feed them to each other while you watch. I’ll—”
Cadsuane “tsk”ed and began again. The crowd in the room watched in amazed silence. Semirhage began to cry—not from the pain, but from the humiliation. That was the key. Semirhage could not be defeated by pain or by persuasion—but destroying her image, that would be more terrible in her mind than any other punishment. Just as it would have been for Cadsuane.
Cadsuane stilled her hand after a few more minutes, releasing the weaves that held Semirhage motionless. “Will you eat?” she asked.
“I—”
Cadsuane raised her hand, and Semirhage practically leaped off of her lap and scrambled onto the floor, eating the beans.
“She is a person,” Cadsuane said, looking at the others. “Just a person, like any of us. She has secrets, but any young boy can have a secret that he refuses to tell. Remember that.”
Cadsuane stood and walked to the door. She hesitated beside Sarene, who watched with fascination as the Forsaken ate beans off of the floor. “You may want to begin carrying a hairbrush with you,” Cadsuane added. “That can be quite hard on your hands.”
Sarene smiled. “Yes, Cadsuane Sedai.”
Now, Cadsuane thought, leaving the room, what to do about al’Thor?
“My Lord,” Grady said, rubbing his weathered face, “I don’t think you understand.”
“Then explain it to me,” Perrin said. He stood on a hillside, looking down over the huge gathering of refugees and soldiers. Mismatched tents of many different designs—tan, single-peaked Aiel structures; colorful large Cairhienin ones; two-tipped tents of basic design—sprang up as the people prepared for the night.
The Shaido Aiel, as hoped, had not given chase. They had let Perrin’s army withdraw, though his scouts said that they had now moved in to investigate the city. Either way, it meant Perrin had time. Time to rest, time to limp away, time—he’d hoped—to use gateways to transport away most of these refugees.
Light, but it was a big group. Thousands upon thousands of people, a nightmare to coordinate and administer to. His last few days had been filled with an endless stream of complaints, objections, judgments and papers. Where did Balwer find so much paper? It seemed to satisfy many of the people who came to Perrin. Judgments and the settlement of disputes seemed so much more official to them when a piece of paper outlined them. Balwer said Perrin would need a seal.
The work had been distracting, which was good. But Perrin knew he couldn’t push aside his problems for long. Rand pulled him northward. Perrin had to march for the Last Battle. Nothing else mattered.
And yet, that very single-mindedness in him—ignoring everything but his objective—had been the source of much trouble during his hunt for Faile. He had to find a balance, somehow. He needed to decide for himself if he wanted to lead these people. He needed to make peace with the wolf inside himself, the beast that raged when he went into battle.
But before he could do any of that, he needed to get the refugees home. That was proving a problem. “You’ve had time to rest now, Grady,” Perrin said.
“The fatigue is only one part of it, my Lord,” Grady said. “Though, honestly, I still feel as if I could sleep a week’s time.”
He did look tired. Grady was a stalwart man, with the face of a farmer and the temperament of one, too. Perrin would trust this man to do his duty before most lords he’d known. But Grady could be pushed only so far. What did it do to a man, to have to channel so much? Grady had bags beneath his eyes, and his face was pale despite his tanned skin. Though he was still a young man, he’d started to go gray.
Light, but I used this man too hard, Perrin thought. Him and Neald both. That had been another effect of Perrin’s single-mindedness, as he was beginning to see. What he’d done to Aram, how he’d allowed those around him to go without leadership. . . . I have to fix this. I have to find a way to deal with it all.
If he didn’t, he might not get to the Last Battle.
“Here’s the thing, my Lord.” Grady rubbed his chin again, surveying the camp. The various contingents—Mayeners, Alliandre’s guard, the Two Rivers men, the Aiel, the refugees from various cities—all camped separately, in their own rings. “There are some hundred thousand people who need to get home. The ones that will leave, anyway. Many say they feel safer here, with you.”
“They can give over wanting that,” Perrin said. “They belong with their families.”
“And the ones whose families are in Seanchan lands?” Grady shrugged. “Before the invaders came, many of these people would be happy to return. But now . . . Well, they keep talking about staying where there’s food and protection.”
“We can still send the ones who want to go,” Perrin said. “We’ll travel lighter without them.”
Grady shook his head. “That’s the thing, my Lord. Your man, Balwer, he gave us a count. I can make a gateway big enough for about two men to walk through at once. If you figure them taking one second to go through . . . Well, it would take hours and hours to send them all. I don’t know the number, but he claimed it would be days’ worth of work. And he said that his estimates were probably too optimistic. My Lord, I could barely keep a gateway open an hour, with how tired I am.”
Perrin gritted his teeth. He’d have to get those numbers from Balwer himself, but he had a sinking feeling that Balwer would be right.
“We’ll keep marching, then,” Perrin said. “Moving north. Each day, we’ll have you and Neald make gateways and return some of the people to their homes. But don’t tire yourselves.”
Grady nodded, eyes hollow from fatigue. Perhaps it would be best to wait a few more days before starting the process. Perrin nodded a dismissal to the Dedicated, and Grady jogged back down into camp. Perrin remained on the hillside, inspecting the various sections of the camp as the people prepared for the evening meal. The wagons sat at the center of the camp, laden with food that—he feared—would run out before he could reach Andor. Or should he go around to Cairhien? That was where he had last seen Rand, though his visions of the man made it seem he wasn’t in either country. He doubted the Queen of Andor would welcome him with open arms, after the rumors about him and that blasted Red Eagle banner.
Perrin left that problem alone for the moment. The camp seemed to be settling in. Each ring of tents sent representatives to the central food depot to claim their evening rations. Each group was in charge of its own meals; Perrin just oversaw the distribution of materials. He made out the quartermaster—a Cairhienin named Bavin Rockshaw—standing on the back of a wagon, dealing with each representative in turn.
Satisfied with his inspection, Perrin walked down into the camp, passing through the Cairhienin tents on the way to his own tents, which were with the Two Rivers men.
He took his enhanced senses for granted, now. They had come along with the yellowing of his eyes. Most people around him didn’t seem to notice those anymore, but he was starkly reminded of the contrast when he met anyone new. Many of the Cairhienin refugees, for instance, paused in their labors setting up tents. They watched him as he passed, whispering, “Goldeneyes.”
He didn’t much care for the na
me. Aybara was the name of his family, and he bore it proudly. He was one of the few who could pass it on. Trollocs had seen to that.
He shot a glance at a nearby group of the refugees, and they hastily turned back to pounding in tent stakes. As they did, Perrin passed a couple of Two Rivers men—Tod al’Caar and Jori Congar. They saw him and saluted, fists to hearts. To them, Perrin Goldeneyes wasn’t a person to fear, but one to respect, although they did still whisper about that night he’d spent in Berelain’s tent. Perrin wished he could escape the shadow of that event. The men were still enthusiastic and energized by their defeat of the Shaido, but it hadn’t been too long ago that Perrin had felt he wasn’t welcome among them.
Still, for the moment, these two seemed to have set aside that displeasure. Instead, they saluted. Had they forgotten that Perrin had grown up with them? What of the times when Jori had made sport of Perrin’s slow tongue, or the times when he’d stopped by the forge to brag about which girls he’d managed to steal a kiss from?
Perrin just nodded back. No use in digging up the past, not when their allegiance to “Perrin Goldeneyes” had helped rescue Faile. Though, as he left them, his too-keen ears caught the two of them chatting about the battle, just a few days past, and their part of it. One of them still smelled like blood; he hadn’t cleaned his boots. He probably didn’t even notice the bloodstained mud.
Sometimes, Perrin wondered if his senses weren’t actually any better than anyone else’s. He took the time to notice things that others ignored. How could they miss that scent of blood? And the crisp air of the mountains to the north? It smelled of home, though they were many leagues from the Two Rivers. If other men took the time to close their eyes and pay attention, would they be able to smell what he did? If they opened those eyes and looked closer at the world around them, would men call their eyes “keen” as they did Perrin’s?
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